


Afternoon, Love

by camerasparring



Series: When I'm With You [2]
Category: IT (1990), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Domestic Softness, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Miniseries, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Richie POV, Rimming, Smut, how could I resist, mustache rides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: Nothing makes Richie feel so smug, nothing makes him hum a jaunty tune on his way back home like knowing his very blonde, very gentle, very strong man will be there waiting for him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: When I'm With You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678141
Comments: 29
Kudos: 167





	Afternoon, Love

**Author's Note:**

> Do not judge me. Thanks to Becca for encouraging me, as always. And Heather cause she got the good ideas.

Richie’s always been a whistler. A singer. A hummin’ man, as his mother used to say. 

And his sister still does say.

Quite often, in fact. But nothing makes Richie feel so smug, nothing makes him hum a jaunty tune on his way back home like knowing his very blonde, very gentle, very strong man will be there waiting for him. 

Tearing himself away this morning was something akin to punishment. A new addition to his ever-quickly expanding list of Thoughtful Adult Decisions. Pre-Derry Richie would have taken one look at a sleepy, pliable, warm, gorgeous body in his bed and canon-balled right back in. But he resisted. Persevered. He’s an honest to god American hero. 

An absurd urge to knock on his own (their, their?) front door finds him, but he pushes past it to swing the thing open, expecting Eddie to be sitting at the table, or meandering near the fridge, or maybe around the stove, stirring soup in a pot, a frilly apron tied around his waist. Richie doesn’t own one, but Eddie is full of little secrets. Richie can hope.

“Spaghetti, I’m hoooome,” he calls through the house to no answer. He flings himself room to room, but no sign of him. Not even a glimpse of that perfect head of hair. 

Richie makes it all the way to the bedroom when he sees the door poked open a sliver. 

“Are you still sleeping, Mr. Lazy B-”

He swings the door open to an eyeful of skin. 

Eddie’s peeled back the comforter - it’s all tucked up onto Richie’s side of the bed (they have sides now, they have _sides_ ), white and smushed around the soft lines of his body. His naked, glistening body. 

“Eddie-”

Then Eddie _sighs_ , cutting, and it’s like all the lamps blast on and blow out at the same moment. Richie sees sparkling in his periphery. Flashing lights. Warning. Far too much is happening. 

“Just in time,” Eddie all but whispers, and Richie stumbles forward a few steps, just to hear him better, “I got out of the shower a few minutes ago.” 

Indeed, Eddie’s skin is pink and raw, beads of moisture stuck to the dustings of hair on his legs and the small of his back. If Richie leans right (he’s _leaning_ because he can’t quite _stand_ , although part of him is doing, well-) he can see water trailing down the curves above his thighs, and Richie runs his tongue over the tips of all his teeth, tempted. 

“You know I am a man of many words, dear, but you really- _ahem_ , you really, change, the- my tune-”

Eddie giggles into his pillow. Richie almost keels over. 

“Just get over here, I’ve been waiting.” 

Richie’s never moved faster in his life, and he “won” Johnny Carson’s half-assed Charity Run for the Stars, if “winning” means huffing past a line of washed-up comedians and watching Ed McMahon puke two feet after the finish line. 

“Thought you said I was right on time?” Richie asks. He kneels next to the bed, surveying the options, far too much skin laid out in front of him and all the time in the world. 

The meeting had gone well, most of them were tilting that way these days, as if he’s being rewarded for killing the clown by maintaining his uncanny fame, but this time with a bonus side of domestic bliss (bliss, bliss, Eddie is _bliss_ , all the time). 

Eddie just mumbles into the pillows. Closer up, Richie can see one shoved up under his hips, the bones denting at the fabric, and Richie wants to touch, he wants to _lick_ there, and humiliation drives over him in waves. 

“Can’t hear you, strawberry shortcake,” he teases, trying to keep it together. He’s usually the one in control. It’s not like women didn’t drive him absolutely nutty in the past - he’d been able to resist the temptation of most if they threw him a thin sliver of interest, but Eddie is offering him a whole damn turkey, juicy and delectable on a plate, and that somehow makes him feel more unwrapped. 

Eddie huffs. “I spent most of my life thinking ‘Spaghetti’ was bad, I should have known with more time and practice you would get even worse.” 

“Oh, you better believe they ain’t slowin’ down now that you’re mine, Spaghetti-Man.”

Eddie’s bottom lip wobbles. Richie leans up to kiss at it. Eddie opens up for him like a candy wrapper, twisted at each end and crinkling excited into his mouth. 

Because Richie finally chances it, touching, dragging a hand up the skin of Eddie’s thigh, soft and pale and _perfect_ under his fingers. Richie’s never believed in that hooey about meant-to-be or soulmates or that dumb _Gone with the Wind_ romantic optimism but he’d swear his body slots into all the right places with Eddie under him. 

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie gasps between kisses, and Richie shuts his eyes against the rush of feeling. 

“Can I try something?” he asks, cupping under the curve of Eddie’s ass, mind flashing like a reel to a weird film he’d seen at a party one time, two men doing something he’s thought of time and again since they started this up and Richie caught wind of all these past feelings and in hindsight it really wasn’t too unfamiliar after all. 

Eddie nods, brown eyes blown. Richie kisses at the bones of his face, the tip of his nose, then stands up to strip off his clothes. 

Eddie’s belly flat on the bed but for the pillow tilting him just the tiniest of inches up, so Richie settles down as best he can on his own stomach, right between Eddie’s spread legs. 

“You won’t get a very good angle from down there,” Eddie laughs, and Richie shakes his head on an instinct. 

“Not actually the angle I was looking for.” 

Richie wraps each hand around a cheek and moves in close. Eddie gasps.

“Oh,” he says, like he’s being told his credit card was declined, so Richie mouths along his thighs first, warming him up. 

“I don’t have to do anything you-”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine. I just didn’t think you would, uh,” he says, a stammer as his leg jerks in Richie’s hold, “I didn’t think you’d want- want anything like that.” 

If Eddie thinks he’s hesitant ( _is_ he hesitant? no, definitely not, he’s almost fully hard, held against the mattress, has been since he walked in here to _this_ heavy sight), then he’s not holding anything back, just to prove himself _eager_. He grips his hands tight, palms full of Eddie, and spreads.

Eddie hiccups above him, bucking his hips where Richie’s tongue was just about to trace a firm line, so instead Richie presses hands down, knuckles into the same pillow putting Eddie in prime position. 

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says quick, then tries it out, one dip down and circle around, and then makes it wetter and it slides easy. He gets lost in it. 

He tries to keep it all to his lips and tongue but Eddie squirms if he moves too low and hair on his upper lip must _scratch_ (he’d shave if Eddie asked, he really would, and then maybe they could do this all the _time_ , he’d wait in line like a fancy restaurant if this dish was promised once he finally got to a table) but then Eddie doesn’t seem too opposed either, since he starts pushing back into it. 

It’s a slow build up of easing in, but he eventually does it, because after all, Eddie has taken fingers, he’s taken much _more_ but this somehow feels so damn different. Once he presses in Eddie _whines_ , so he goes deeper, and then stronger, and then he’s swirling circles and making noises and really going for it. 

Eddie’s turning red, the little guy always _flushes_ with red when he’s embarrassed or, apparently, being eaten alive, and this time it’s a lot of both, Richie figures, but he hasn’t said boo about stopping. In fact, he’s moaning with it now, saying Richie’s name, all the stuff you hope for when you endeavor to do something so seemingly filthy but endlessly adoring. 

The length of Eddie’s back shifts as he moves, so Richie reaches up to feel it, one hand spread across it, and Eddie bends an elbow to grab at it. 

“Please, I- can we move it along, I- I’m not sure I can hold out much longer,” Eddie says after doing another bout of gasping into his pillow.

But Richie stalls, he’s not sure he wants to stop. He’s practically humping the bed, so fuckin’ close, and Eddie is too, so he lifts up and takes a breath. 

“I can’t last either, darlin’, you want me inside?” 

“No, _no_ , you’re never gonna make- let’s just, I’m- I can, keep going, Richie, just keep going,” Eddie finally finishes, and Richie honest-to-god giggles into him, tongue lapping messily through bastardized laughs as they both shake with it. Richie’s bound to dirty the sheets this way, but he’s on the edge of falling off an endless cliff of pleasure. 

It’s so up close and personal, and a couple times Eddie leans back to grin wide at him, sweaty face and big chunks of hair falling into his eyes and Richie is gonna _lose_ it (Eddie always makes him _lose_ it, he hasn’t felt this way since he hit his 30’s and marriage number two ended, and _god_ if this were marriage five he’d be the happiest man alive), so he ups the pace and kicks his hips in the same circles he’s tonguing into Eddie. 

Eddie breaks first, which makes Richie smug, but then Eddie flutters around him in waves, bright shaking waves of light and Richie throws himself up to rub off on the back of Eddie’s thigh before he coats the sheets. He doesn’t leave Eddie hanging, shoves two fingers where his tongue used to be, gentling him through his orgasm and finishing out his own before collapsing over the heaving expanse of Eddie’s back. 

Richie shakes with a hum when he lands, maybe a little too heavily, but then Eddie arches up into him and they both hiss with the overstimulation. 

He pets at Eddie’s hair, presses kisses there as they catch their breath, and Eddie sniffs a little, and flushes again, because he does, sometimes, when things are intense, and Richie doesn’t say anything. It’s not the same embarrassment flush as the _fun_ embarrassment flush, and with Eddie, he’s starting to learn how to keep quiet about things. So he kisses at it instead, then back up to his hair again, then over his ear and the side of his neck and his shoulders. He hums a tune into Eddie’s skin. 

Richie Tozier’s always been a hummin’ man, and Eddie Kaspbrak’s the kind of man that makes you want to hum symphonies. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank youuuuuuu please do not perceive me this is a little embarrassing hahaaaaa.....
> 
> Please leave me a comment or yell at me [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/camerasparring) or BOTH, I love to hear from you if you're able/willing.


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